


Heirs of Durin: Bonus Tracks

by Dragonsquill (dragonsquill)



Series: Heirs of Durin [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Erotica, F/M, Heirs of Durin AU, M/M, Side Stories, Vignettes, asexual romantics, character tags and pairings to be added, shameless fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-15
Updated: 2017-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-17 22:23:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 19,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3545933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonsquill/pseuds/Dragonsquill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fili and Kili are deeply in love.  It's the core of who they are.  But it's not <i>all</i> of who they are.  They're also visionaries, determined to create their own, modern sound, with the help of a band that becomes a family.</p><p>Out-of-sequence side ficlets for the couples and friendships in my story, <i>Heirs of Durin</i>.  Expect lots of sex, friendship, love, and fluff.<br/>1. FiKi, E Rating<br/>2. Boffins, G Rating<br/>3. FiKi, Boffins, T Rating<br/>4. FiKi, M Rating<br/>5. Vali/Dis, M Rating<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fili/Kili, Pillows, E Rating

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Linane](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linane/gifts), [WithywindlesDaughter](https://archiveofourown.org/users/WithywindlesDaughter/gifts), [FuryNZ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FuryNZ/gifts), [ceallaig](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceallaig/gifts).



> [Blanket Permission Statement](http://dragonsquill.tumblr.com/permission)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fili, Kili, and a pile of pillows.

_This is an early story, taking place about two months after Fili’s permanent move home to Erebor after earning his doctorate. It is also proof that these two are both utter sex god band leaders, and total dorks._

——

When Fili and Kili moved into their new house, they owned the following:

1\. one king-sized bed, with sheets, a gift from their “Uncle” Dwalin (this was delivered the day before Fili arrived and the pair took residence, and never spoken of directly; Dwalin would have blushed and blustered and then gotten pissy if questioned about it)  
2\. one childhood dresser from Kili’s old bedroom, with cartoon stickers adorning the drawers  
3\. a brand new set of kitchenware from their parents  
4\. the television and gaming system Fili brought home from college, perched on  
5\. his childhood dresser, which was painted a distressing shade of orange  
6\. approximately five million pillows

The pillows were Kili’s fault.

He picked out the apartment under the guidance of their father, who had promised Fíli that he wouldn’t let Kíli buy the most “interesting” place he could find. He’d gently guided Kíli away from various “unique” fixer-uppers and “artistic garden homes” and toward a sensible and safe apartment in a small complex not too far from their parents’ rooms. Kíli insisted, however, that he and Fíli would set everything else up together, it’d be fun, really, no dad, we don’t need furniture Fíli will be here soon.

But then the house looked empty.

Their house looked empty.

And Kíli didn’t want Fíli coming home to an empty house.

So he went shopping.

Only, it was all a bit overwhelming and none of it seemed to match, and he really would rather pick out things like living room furniture with Fíli at his side (Fíli, who was graduating and would finally come home to stay, doctorate in hand), so what he ended up buying was pillows.

Lots of pillows.

Big pillows, little pillows, body pillows, decorative pillows, even one pillow big enough they probably could get away with calling it a guest bed.

By the time Fíli actually arrived, there were enough pillows in their new apartment to build a sizable nest in front of the fire, which came in very handy those first few days back, when they were extremely busy and couldn’t be bothered to leave the house.

Luckily, most of the pillows had removable covers for easy cleaning.

—-

The blizzard came two months after Fíli’s return home.

It was billed by the news as “the worst storm of the century,” though Fíli and Kíli knew their friendly elderly neighbors (who adored the “nice young couple who carried in their groceries”) would have opinions about that assertion next market day. As far as they were concerned, it was bad enough; snow piled on the mountain and covered the small windows along one side of their apartment, and the power went out four hours in. Luckily, Fíli kept an eye on the news and made sure they were well stocked with firewood, so when the lights went out they already had a fire burning cheerfully for light and warmth.

Well, some warmth. It went as far as the living room, at least, but no farther.

Which was where Kíli’s long-established nesting tendencies came into play.

“I’m going to build a fort,” he announced cheerfully, gathering up all the pillows and putting them in an embarrassingly vast pile near the fire.

Fíli kicked a few that had tumbled too close for comfort away. “We’re not twenty, you know.”

“I know,” Kíli agreed, “that’s why we’ll be able to share one instead of having to build two, and we won’t have to keep some for ammunition,” here he glared at Fíli, who smirked back, because Fíli had always, always hoarded the ammunition pillows until he had them all and then utterly destroyed impatient Kíli in a final assault, “which means it’ll be epic.”

“Epic,” Fíli said doubtfully. “An epic pillow fort.”

“Oh ye of little faith.” Kíli tsked sadly. “Watch and learn.”

Fíli watched.

Their mother had begun threatening to kidnap them and force them into a shopping trip with their father if they didn’t buy some kind of living room furniture. They had, out of a sense of self-preservation, purchased one comfortable brown love seat. This became the backbone of Kíli’s fort.

“A loveseat,” Fíli pointed out from his position comfortably settled on the hearth, feet near the flames, “is not a pillow.”

“I’m using it as infrastructure for the cushions,” Kíli argued cheerfully, demonstrating by removing the two firm sofa cushions and lining the front with them.

Seven minutes into construction (Fíli knew because he was timing it) Kíli instructed him to grab the torch and go get the sheets off the bed.

“Sheets,” Fíli told him, “also aren’t pillows.”

“Stop being a pedantic old fart and get the sheets,” Kíli shot back, then muttered, “It’s like living with a two hundred year old auntie” when Fíli’s back was turned.

Brat.

Twenty-seven and a half minutes after he began, Kíli presented his final product with all the pride of a master architect opening a new shopping mall.

And Fíli had to admit, it was epic.

Tall enough to sit up in with some headroom left over, open to the fireplace, well draped on both sides and carefully fortified to prevent disastrous loss of pillow walls, this was the sort of fort a dwarf could be proud of.

“Nice,” he said, and Kíli absolutely beamed at him before ceremoniously shoving him down and inside.

“It’ll be warmer in here,” he assured his brother. “You’ll see.”

“Ow! Kíli, I can get in on my own-”

“Sure you can but see, I’ve set up your favorite pillow just here for your head,” Kíli grinned and slotted Fíli into place, “and it’ll be even warmer when you’ve a proper blanket.”

“There aren’t any blankets left. You used the heavy one for the floor-ah. I see,” he interrupted himself as Kíli stretched happily on top of him, making a soft, pleased humming noise that warmed Fíli’s heart and a couple of other places as well, for bonus. “That’ll do.”

Their fingers tangled together, Fíli’s under Kíli’s, as his brother kissed him, slow and lazy and utterly pleased with himself. He had cause to be, his work really was clever, and Fíli thanked him for it with little nips to his lip and arching to meet the inevitable lazy thrusts that came from such prolonged contact.

Eventually Kíli let go, slightly chilled fingers working on the buttons of Fíli’s vest, lips against Fíli’s neck.

“We’ll knock the pillows over.”

“We won’t if you stay still,” Kíli answered with a grin.

Fíli raised his eyebrows. “Generally, when we have sex, I move around.”

“Well then,” Kíli shifted off to slip Fíli’s pants off with the ease of long practice (albeit aided and abetted by the instinctive lift of Fíli’s hips, “this’ll be a different kind of sex, won’t it?”

Fíli grinned.

Kíli stripped down as well, all warm skin and dark curls in the firelight, and Fíli had to fight hard indeed not to sit up and reach out and pull that waist where he could lick and suck and-

Kíli slid comfortably on top of him, straddling his waist with a saucy roll of his hips. “We’ve done this before,” Fíli said, reaching out to run pleased fingers along Kíli’s waist. He loved the look of Kíli’s stomach, the dark trail of hair leading down to one of his very favorite bits.

“Yes,” Kíli agreed, leaning down – not for a kiss, as Fíli suspected, but instead to flick one of his collection of pillows out of the way with a soft tah dah for showmanship. Resting on the pillow beneath was a small bottle of lube.

“You hid lube in your pillow fort.”

“Of course. I like to be prepared.” Kíli wiggled, utterly pleased with himself. “Now get those fingers of yours to work. Practice is important to maintain skills.” He scooted up a bit and lifted his hips.

He let out a familiar and well-loved moan when Fíli slipped slick fingers inside – a little too much lube again, but it was fine; he loved watching Kíli’s face, the way his hips would move as he looked for certain angles, how he rocked them for the stretch of it.

He hoped he never stopped feeling this warm awe in his chest that Kíli let him do this, that he could make his brother feel so good with just his fingers and breathless kisses.

Kíli could be impatient sometimes, but this time he held out for two fingers, wiggled up Fíli’s body for three (Fíli’s mouth mercilessly teasing his sensitive nipples), purred approval as he slid down and slid a condom on Fíli (flicker of teasing tongue), wrapping his own slick hands around Fíli and stroking. Fíli prepared to flip them over, but Kíli pinned him down (hands on Fíli’s shoulders in a way that sent a little shock of lust through him) and rocked against his groin instead.

“Kíli?”

Kíli moved again, thighs tightening against Fíli’s as he lifted and lowered his hips – and scowled.

He looked adorable like that, not that Fíli would dare tell him so. It also felt good – good but not enough, the uneven friction and Kíli’s awkward movements. “Baby?”

“It’s just…” Kíli wiggled, and the effect on Fíli’s erection was immediate. He’d be perfectly happy to grab Kíli’s hips and line them up a bit better and just-

But Kíli was less sanguine.

He twisted and glared down behind him for a moment. “This looked a lot easier on telly,” he muttered, and Fíli bit down hard on his bottom lip to hold in a laugh.

“You’ve been watching porn,” he said with a delighted grin that made Kíli turn the glare on him. It was impressive as always, even with the flush on his ears and his lips a little swollen.

“You were gone for two years,” Kíli snapped irritably, and the muscles in his stomach bunched and released as he lifted his hips and lowered them, only to torture Fíli a bit more as his cock slid between the wonderful globes of Kíli’s ass.

Fíli rubbed soothing hands along Kíli’s thighs, trying not to think of Kíli in his room back home, watching porn – probably with Men - and muffling his cries as he stroked himself off. “You do…” Fíli asked gently, “you do know it doesn’t work like porn?”

Kíli rolled his eyes. “Yes, Fíli, I am a grown person, I know it doesn’t work like porn, but I also know you and I have successfully slid tab A into slot B on several occasions now and I want to ride you!”

Fíli’s breath caught on a moan. “Oh,” he breathed, because the thought of Kíli moving on top of him, of Kíli driving himself and taking what he wanted and Fíli getting to watch-

Yes.

“Here, here, let me…” he released Kíli’s right thigh and slid his left hand down, wrapping it around himself with a little hiss. “Here, lift up.”

Kíli did, looking mildly suspicious in a way that made Fíli grin. It was still all just a little too slick, too-much lube and Kíli muttering to himself, but he did find it, did push down-

“Fíli!” a sharp little shout as Kíli threw his shoulders back, his hands tightening and pulling in the curls on Fíli’s chest as he lowered himself and Fíli was surrounded by perfect, tight heat.

Kíli was beautiful, his eyes wide and his lips parted, panting for air as he froze for one breath, two, three, and then a low moan in his chest.

“Are you all right?”

Kíli blinked down at him.

“Kíli?” Fíli asked again, fighting the urge to move his hips, to sink into that beautiful body and warmth and love. “Are you okay?”

Kíli breathed properly and shifted his hips. “Yes,” he said. And then louder, “Yes, I like it. It was fast just-” his thighs tightened against Fíli’s hips and he rose a little before sliding back down with a soft, pleased sigh. “Oh. I like it. You’re deep, like this.”

Fili’s eyes flickered over him, the twitch of muscles in his stomach, the sharp breaths in his chest. “It’s good?”

“Yeah.” Kíli shifted forward, rested his elbows on Fíli’s chest. “It’s good.” His cheeks were pink but his eyes were bright when he purred, “I love feeling you inside me,” in a voice Fíli’d never heard before.  
Fíli’s hips jerked up and Kíli gave a surprised little yelp that made them both grin.

It took some practice, as always – Fíli pushing, Kíli pulling – before Kíli arched back and gave a low, deep moan that was one of the sexiest things Fíli had ever heard.

“Oh,” Kíli breathed. “Oh. That’s. Just right. I can feel every-oh.”

And he rolled his hips in a way that flexed from his shoulders to his thighs, every muscle moving under the skin, a piece of art brought to life.

Fíli stared up at him, his heart pounding in his ears, hard and wanting. “Move, baby,” he whispered, and there was a growl in his voice too, new and raw, “please.”

Kíli flashed a grin at him. “Oh, yes,” he said, “I plan to.”

He moved.

He moved, and he talked, a low purr of sound, his hands tugging at the hair on Fíli’s chest and stomach, kneading like a cat as he murmured, “Oh, yes, so deep, nnnn, Fíli, Fíli, it’s just-right there, yeah, yeah,” a pattering of satisfied moans as he ground down.

It was less friction than Fíli was used to but he didn’t care – everything was tight and close, the pillows, the fire, the heat, Kíli’s body, Kíli’s voice, and he came suddenly, with sharp thrusts of his hips that made Kíli laugh and grab for Fíli’s belly as he rode them.

“Yes!” he crowed, letting go, wrapping a hand around himself and jerking fast. A litany of yes yes yes as he climaxed, hot seed splashing Fíli’s skin, tangling in both their treasure trails as Kíli writhed and stroked himself to an unabashedly messy climax.

A handy, well-worn pillow case served for clean-up, as they came back to themselves tangled in Kíli’s nest of blanket and pillows, the fire crackling merrily in the fireplace. Kíli stretched happily on top of Fíli, tucked his head under Fíli’s chin, a hot, heavy, perfect weight.

“So,” Fíli said, stroking his brother’s slightly damp back (a bit smug, even if Kíli did most of the work, that they’d worked up something of a sweat), “does this count as an earthquake test for our new addition?”

Kíli’s laugh came out as a hiccup, which was just as warm and perfect and their ridiculous blanket and pillow nest.


	2. Bofur/Bilbo, Wedding, G Rating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo, Bofur, and the Boffins wedding!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _This takes place, chronologically, around the time Fili comes home to stay (meaning the Boffins haven't met them yet). It's a running joke that though everyone calls Bilbo and Bofur the Old Marrieds, they've actually been together less time than Fili and Kili..though not by much._
> 
>  
> 
> This chapter is dedicated to [WithywindlesDaughter ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/WithywindlesDaughter/pseuds/WithywindlesDaughter), for being lovely and supportive while living a life of, ah....adventure!

A relationship between a Hobbit and a Dwarf was one that came with a good number of compromises and a _lot_ of explanations. Everything from diet (Bilbo _would_ insist on vegetables at _every_ meal) to date plans (Bofur did learn to love walks through the national gardens) to television control (Bilbo would not watch wrestling more than twice a week, thank you; Bofur slept through cooking shows). But the two of them learned to deal with it, through a combination of talking things through and Bofur’s more laid-back personality (there was something about Bilbo’s face that convinced people he was a genial, easy-going sort, and Bofur loved watching people’s eyes widen in fear as they learned differently). So by the time they were planning their wedding, they were well-versed in successfully juggling two cultures.

Which was good, because Bilbo became especially high-strung as the event loomed on the horizon, even as Bofur became conversely more pleased and mellow with life.

Dwarves married surrounded by stone, either the stone of the mountain of their birth or the one in which they planned to be interned. For most, this was the same mountain; dwarves travelled, but rarely moved their households. Even in Ered Luin, where homes were carved not deep inside the mountains but scattered across their surfaces and joined by stone walkways and staircases, marriages took place in a special internal chamber, where once the King of the Blue Mountains ruled. 

This was the only point on which Bofur would not budge.

“We’ll be married beneath the stone,” he said, crossing his arm and stilling his mustache stubbornly, “beyond that, it’s up to you.”

Bilbo acquiesced with a smile and a kiss at the edge of Bofur’s mouth to bring back the usual grin.

Bilbo was stubborn and opinionated, but also kind and intelligent; he could give in gracefully when it was so important to the Dwarf he’d fallen in love with. 

“After all,” he said, as they went to see the middle-sized cavern, “I love you in part _because_ you’re a Dwarf, not in spite of it.”

The ceremony was simple, as Hobbit ceremonies are. Friends came, and Bofur’s family, and even a pair of stubborn and curious newlywed Hobbits, all the way from the Shire: Drogo and Primula Baggins (nee Brandybuck). They kept in contact with Bilbo through a satellite computer he’d gifted Primula as a teenager and updated over the years, refusing to listen to kith or kin as regarded Mad Baggins who abandoned the Shire.

“He’s charming!” Primula declared of Bofur only minutes after meeting him. “I love his smile!”

“He knows utterly disreputable songs,” Drogo said approvingly after their first dinner together. They’d taken a room at one of Ered Luin’s inns, but Bofur would have none of it, and instead brought them to his apartments. They would switch to Bilbo’s short-term lease after the wedding in “return for some hauling help,” though a Hobbit couldn’t lift a third of what a Dwarf managed. Bofur proved a wonderful host, even with Bilbo fluttering in the background, scolding him for his off-color jokes, and was especially taken with Primula, who promised to help him through his transition into Bagginsdom.

“It’s a bit of a ridiculous name,” she said sympathetically, “but you learn to giggle at it after a while.”

Bilbo had been shocked when Bofur assumed he’d become a Baggins; Bofur had been amused at Bilbo’s surprise.

“We don’t hold by last names, you know,” he said, “and I’d rather Baggins from you than the one made up by Men.” Then he kissed Bilbo’s nose, which was guaranteed to earn a half-hearted glare and a full twitch every time.

Dwarves wore traditional coats with family embroidery at weddings, but for Bilbo, Bofur ordered his brother, cousin, and father into the vests and coats Hobbits preferred. Bilbo had vests made, in various colors and embroidered with the black roses Bofur had discovered and insisted on keeping Bilbo supplied with. Bombur’s was a burnt orange, Bofur’s a medium blue, Kefur’s purple, and Bifur-

Well.

Bifur insisted on his own black leather vest.

Bilbo wore a cheerful yellow over a cream-colored shirt that Bofur found absolutely stunning, and told him so.

Bilbo blushed, which Bofur mentally added to his prized collection. Making Bilbo blush was much more difficult than most people imagined.

Hobbits believed that couples should be surrounded by living things. Flowers were especially sought after, and so Bilbo and Bofur had the hall filled with potted plants, greenery, garlands, and mixed bouquets of flowers that filled the cavern with a fresh, bright scent. Each member of the wedding party was given a crown of black, red, and white rosebuds, which Bombur was so taken with that he insisted some be threaded into his beard. His two eldest were happy to assist with this, as well as to wear their own for their roles in the wedding party. 

Hobbits exchanged rings, which struck the gathered dwarves as odd indeed (didn’t it get in the way of _doing_ things, always having a ring knocking about on your hands that you couldn’t take off?), but they accepted it as one of Bilbo’s more charming idiosyncrasies. The rings were delivered up the aisle by the aforementioned Bomburlings, Kora and Hira, and handed over with proper pomp and circumstance.

The rings had been a gift, also a Hobbit tradition. They were provided by the ceremony’s strangest guests: Lord Elrond of Rivendell had accepted Bilbo’s invitation, as had his three children. The Elves had been the first to hire Bilbo as lyricist, and he had lived for several years in Rivendell. They towered over the other guests, even when everyone was seated, and special chairs had to be provided. 

It was the one thing Bofur hadn’t been so certain about – _elves_ , really? – but Bilbo insisted.

“They’re my friends,” he said, his eyes narrowing, hands on hips. “And I’ll invite any friends I like to my own wedding.”

Bofur wasn’t a fool. He knew what the hands-on-hips meant: his beloved was preparing for battle, and Bofur frankly didn’t have a chance. “It’s fine, it’s fine!” He held his hands up defensively. “As long as they don’t…pass out from…Dwarf air or…something.”

“Dwarf air.”

If a voice could roll its eyes, Bilbo’s would.

“Or _whatever_ it is that makes elves think dwarves are the most unpleasant part of an unpleasant world!”

Bilbo laughed. He had a wonderful laugh, light and airy, nothing like a Dwarf. It was distinctly Hobbit. “Please don’t say anything to Elladan and Elrohir. They’ll pretend to take you seriously and start walking around with masks over their faces.” He wrapped his arms around Bofur’s waist and cuddled in a bit. “You’ll like them all, I promise.”

It was a promise he couldn’t keep, and Bofur still eyed that little corner of the cavern – also crowded by Bilbo’s manager, Gandalf, a Man of strangely indeterminate but far-too-many years – with what he considered rightful suspicion. He didn’t say anything, though, and he had to admit the smile of the Lady Arwen was warm enough to make up for her brothers’ lifted noses, and Lord Elrond was clearly very fond of Bilbo. 

The rings, however - even Bofur was forced to admit they were lovely when Elrond placed them in his hands.

“May you be blessed,” the Lord of Rivendell said, and Bofur saw, for the first time in his life, genuine fondness in the eyes of an Elf. “He speaks of you with a happiness missing in all the days I’ve known him, and I see you feel the same.”

Bofur certainly didn’t blush, because he was a _Dwarf_ , but maybe he did look away and clear his throat a bit.

Bilbo’s ring was delicate, reminiscent of vines and leaves, intertwining at the base of his small finger. Bofurs was thick and sturdy, rough-hewn on the top like untampered gold. They were made of the same material, and both twisted designs; a pair, but different, very much like their new owners.

They exchanged them under an arch of mixed wildflowers. Bofur very nearly messed up his entire oath, so distracted was he by the blinding smile on his Hobbit’s face, the gentleness in his eyes, the crown of black roses and cheerful daisies on his curls. Bofur’s was the same – a mixture of heavy velvet blooms and bright wildflowers, carefully selected and braided by Bilbo himself. A velvet ribbon in deep red ran down from the crown, and Bifur had carefully plaited it into the single braid down Bofur’s back.

“A proper Hobbit,” his cousin had growled, but it was with pride. Bifur had a great respect for his new cousin, who never viewed Bifur with fear, but only with curiousity and kindness. 

The vows were, by necessity, in Westron; but Bofur leaned in, and murmured in his Hobbit’s ear so no Elves or Men could hear-

_“Nê zirikhizu uh agrîf, gandi zu âzyunguh, ra yânji furkhuh ni furkhizu akhùthuzh.”_

-because he had dreamed of saying those words since the night he tentatively asked Bilbo to be bound to a silly, somewhat wealthy, musical Dwarf for the rest of their lives.

Bilbo beamed at him, and his eyes were bright, and he murmured-

_“Mâ akhùthuzhur zurkur ze,”_

-with an accent that positively hurt Bofur’s ears, but were the most beautiful, garbled words he’d ever heard. 

He learned later that it was his brother’s wife, Hetta, who took his betrothed aside and broke the custom of thousands of years to teach a Hobbit how to answer _If you want to have me, I vow you my love, and fold my life into your life eternally_ with _we will be forever as one._

Their union was sealed with three kisses – one to each wrist for Dwarven tradition, and one to the lips for Hobbit.

When the guests erupted in cheers and cries and flying flower petals, Bilbo laughed and threw out his arms as Bofur gazed at his Hobbit among a shower of roses.

It was the lovely Arwen who caught that moment on film, and had it developed and beautifully framed. When it arrived in the mail from Rivendell three weeks later, it brought tears to Bofur’s eyes that his husband lovingly brushed away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Khuzdul translations courtesy of khuzdul4u.tumblr.com. Thank you!


	3. Fili/Kili, Bofur/Bilbo, Hiding Something, T Rating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fili/Kili, Bofur/Bilbo
> 
> Fili is hiding something. Kili needs a spy to find out what.
> 
> T Rating

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a gift to the lovely furynz!

Fíli was keeping secrets, and Kíli wanted to know why.

They weren’t a couple who kept secrets from each other. They talked about things. Music, jobs, sex (a personal favorite topic), food, dreams – they even freely chatted about topics the other wasn’t interested in. The one time they had kept things from each other, it’d ended up with a mess of upset Kíli and overworked Fíli, and their father forcing them to communicate at 2 am.

No one wanted a repeat of that.

So Kíli decided he would find out what this secret was. Root it out, as it were. Of course, he was not a particularly sneaky person, but he wasn’t going to let that stop him.

This was important.

He would need spies.

He considered his options. The band, of course, would be his best bet, since they spent so much time with his target. Dwalin was out, as he had no subtlety and would just march up to Fíli and demand answers. Ori would get distracted by music. Gimli would…Gimli. Gimli was a possibility.

“No.”

“Oh, come _on_ , he trusts you! It’s your face!” Gimli was unmoved. “And the memory of your sweet little sleeping baby self.”

Gimli glared at him and crossed his arms, not even wincing at the pull of skin over his recently completed full sleeve tattoo (Gimli was, admittedly, badass). “First off, we don’t talk about my baby self. Second, I have taken a personal oath not to get involved in the two of you and your ridiculous romance.”

Kíli was wounded. “Our romance isn’t ridiculous!”

“It is. It makes people vomit rainbows, and I want no part of it.”

That was an interesting mental image. “Please?”

“No.”

“Is there something I could bribe you with?”

“No.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

Kíli considered this. “A new guitar?”

“I don’t collect guitars, I just keep the two best ones at hand.”

“…Chocolates?”

“I can buy those for myself, thanks.”

Kíli huffed. “Ale?”

“That too.”

Kíli gave up.

Bofur, he decided, was as lacking in subtlety as Dwalin, and likely to sneak around humming a theme song under his breath. He decided to approach Bilbo. A book he dimly recalled from childhood claimed that Hobbits were incredibly light on their feet, and could be completely silent when they wanted. Having been the recipient of several sneaky blankets from Bilbo over the last several months (he just . . . rested his eyes sometimes, while the others were arguing over this or that five seconds of music for an hour), this seemed accurate.

“You want me to…spy on Fíli?”

“I want to know what he’s up to. He’s sneaking out and not telling me where he’s going, and coming home late looking all frustrated and tired and going straight to bed.”

Bilbo raised both eyebrows at him. “We’ve all been working hard-”

“Fíli usually needs a certain requisite amount of dedicated cuddling before bed,” Kíli informed their Hobbit. He was an expert; he knew. Fíli would get himself all wound up working, and need Kíli to enforce relaxation before he could get properly to sleep. If he’d been composing so late, he would have come home in need of a pillow nest and a massage; as it was, he was going straight to sleep. “He’s doing something else to unwind, and I want to know what it is.”

“You could ask,” Bilbo suggested, like the old married Hobbit he was (that Bilbo and Bofur had, in fact, been together less time than Fíli and Kíli was a fact Bilbo liked to remind him of but Kíli liked to ignore). 

Kíli scowled. “I did. He said he was working on something, but he wouldn’t give me details.”

“Then maybe,” Bilbo suggested, nose twitching with amusement, hands on slightly rounded Hobbit-hips, “he has a good reason, and all will be revealed at a later time.”

Kíli harrumphed. “If all you’re going to do is argue, I’ll ask someone else.”

“No, no,” Bilbo waved his hands. “I’ll see what I can find out for you.”

“Be discrete!”

“I am _alwayss_ discrete,” Bilbo responded archly, shaking his head (most likely at the foolishness of dwarves) as he walked away.

\-----

 

Bilbo’s reports came regularly over the next few days, via text message.

_Fíli is at the gym._   
_This is fun to watch._   
A handsome dwarf, your brother. 

**Stop ogling Fíli!**

_I’m not ogling, I’m spying._   
_Under orders._   
_Oooh shorts._

**Bilbo!**

\------

_Fíli is going to the grocery store._

**It’s 9 at night!**

_Amazingly, there are stores that are open 24 hours._

**Haha.**   
**What’s he buying?**

_Cereal._   
_Very suspicious._   
_Do adults eat Froot Loops?_   
_Maybe he has a secret child somewhere._

**……**

_Ahhh, they’re for you then._

\------

_Fíli’s at the library._   
_Turning in books, now he’s in the music history section._   
_Does he ever read for fun?_

**He thinks music history is fun.**

_Hmm. Prefer adventures myself._

**Also, Bilbo?**

_Yes?_

**I’M at the library.**   
**And Fíli isn’t here.**

….. 

**Bilbo!**

_……User is unavailable._

**Oh you’re KIDDING me**

\-----

Kili snarled to himself as he stomped across Dale. His expression was so fierce that even Men scattered out of his way, and he made a short trip of it, growling his way right up to the door of the house Bofur and Bilbo were renting.

He rang the bell with all the force he could muster, and glared angrily at its insistence on still playing a merry little tune.

Bofur opened the door, looking cheeky as usual, wearing a well-worn Iron Hills tour t-shirt and jeans and no shoes whatsoever (not even house slippers; too much time with a Hobbit, this one). He took one look at Kíli’s face and said, “They’re in the kitchen.”

Kili grunted a thank you and stormed down the cheerful green hallway to the cheerful yellow kitchen. 

While it did slip by him that Bofur had said _they’re in the kitchen_ rather than _he’s in the kitchen_ , it didn’t escape his notice that the entire house smelled like heaven on earth, rich and sweet. The power of that aroma was enough to soften his stomp to a proper walk, though he still burst through the door with a growled, “Bilbo!”

“Hello there,” Bilbo said pleasantly. “I thought you might come by after my little snafu.”

Kíli’s eyes widened.

Bilbo looked just like Bilbo always did: short slacks, clean white shirt, cheerful vest (red and apple green stripes today), but beside him was-

Well.

Kíli supposed it was Fíli.

Fíli, blinking at him in surprise. His hair was up in what could only be called a bun, and over his typically sleeveless shirt he was wearing an apron embroidered with the proud moniker “IN DOG BEERS I’VE ONLY HAD ONE.” Something that hideous had to belong to Bofur.

There was a dusting of white in his beard and a streak of bright blue across his cheekbones. On his nose (his delightful, wonderful nose, made for kissing) was a dab of fluffy white icing.

“Fíli?!”

Fíli sighed. “Kíli! What are you _doing_ here?”

Kíli’s stunned eyes went up and down the messy vision before him. There were floured _hand prints_ on the apron, Fíli-sized. Fíli was never _messy_ . He was always sleek and well put together, smirking right into the faces of everyone who sent him looks for wearing vests without shirts and generally dressing like he was still back in Gondor. “I was looking for you!”

Fíli huffed. “Well, you found me. And ruined your surprise.”

“My . . .” Kíli looked between them. “My surprise?”

“He still looks surprised to me,” Bilbo (who was utterly clean of all flour and icing) offered cheekily.

Fíli shot him a look. “You were supposed to distract him so he’d be surprised in the morning!”

Bilbo did look a bit sheepish at this. “I know. I messed that up a bit. But look, he’s surprised.”

Kíli threw his hands up. “What is _going on_?!”

Fíli twisted enough to pick up a rack on the counter, holding up a tray of cupcakes in cheerful silver cups. Two were iced – obviously too soon, the icing having melted into a mess along the sides. “Happy birthday,” he said, weakly.

Kíli blinked. “My birthday is tomorrow.”

Fíli rolled his eyes. “Yes, that was the point.” He huffed. “I’ve been learning to make these,” he held up the tray, “so you could have something properly homemade on your birthday.” His cheeks flushed just a little. “You’re always cooking and making things, I wanted to return the favor. But I’m . . .”

“A little hopeless,” Bilbo finished for him, his voice gentle but a smile twitching at the edges of his mouth.

Fíli huffed again.

Kíli felt the grin spread across his face. “He gets distracted when he cooks.”

“Yes,” Bilbo said dryly, “I’ve noticed. But this batch is good, once I stopped him from icing all of them.”

Fíli glared at the ugly cupcakes and Kíli felt his heart melt. “I didn’t realize they had to be cold first,” he muttered. “They taste best warm anyway.”

Kíli stepped forward. Fíli was so talented in so many ways, but he’d given up on cooking years ago, preferring nowadays to serve as Kíli’s guinea pig. He looked so frustrated, and he was such a mess-

It was adorable.

Kíli gently removed the tray from Fíli’s hand and set the cooling cupcakes back on the counter. Then he stepped forward (noting as he did that there was flour all over Fíli’s boots as well, and grinning to himself that his brother, who could play a violin with a touch as delicate as a breeze, couldn’t transfer flour from one container to another without spilling it all over himself), and leaned in to kiss that bit of icing right off Fíli’s nose. 

“Thank you,” he said, grinning, as Bilbo chuckled to himself and slipped out of the room, his voice and Bofur’s floating in momentarily from the hallway.

“I was going to sneak them home,” Fíli said as Kíli wrapped cheerful arms around him, “so you could have them in the morning.”

“How long did it take you to make a decent batch?”

Fíli sighed. A deep, soulful sigh. “…..Six days.”

Kíli laughed, because, well, he was distractedly in love with Fíli of course (anyone in his right mind would be), but he was a little brother as well. And he was an _excellent_ baker. “I’ll pretend to be surprised in the morning,” he said with a grin. “Promise.”

Fíli’s dimple flashed even as he muttered about Hobbits who couldn’t keep secrets.

“How about if I help you ice these,” Kíli offered, “and then we can go home and I can lick the last of the icing off your cheek there?”

“I have _icing_ on my cheek?” Fíli asked, looking mildly disgusted, and Kíli didn’t try to hide his delighted laugh (definitely not _giggles_ , no matter what Fíli claimed later, when there was a mysterious smear of fresh, homemade icing on his own belly, ready to be teasingly licked off).


	4. Fili/Kili, Beads, M Rating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two ficlets about beads.

If it’d only happened _once_ , that would be one thing.

Kili could laugh about it and move on (had, actually, as Fili cursed and tried to stay absolutely still because _Mahal’s Balls_ this was the _first time he’d gotten his mouth on the things_ and they were still tender which was doing _things_ to Kili’s body and here he was with his thrice-cursed bead all tangled up in the ring and-) if there’d only been the first time.

But then it happened again, when Fili was _clearly_ aiming for a fairly epic blowjob (Fili had such a lovely mouth and such talented fingers, and something about “Well, shit, I’m stuck on the ring again” just ruined the moment, not to mention effing _ow_ ).

And then the third time, and Fili’s nails were digging in at his waist and Fili was biting as his nipple and it was just _yes perfect_ even though they were hiding in a closet and Fili was completely dressed and there were _people_ just outside-

and then it got stuck.

Well and truly tangled.

“We have to get back out there!” Kili hissed as Fili cursed under his breath and fiddled with the ring.

“Well we’re not going back like this!”

There was a commotion outside, and then voices, “Fili! Kili! You’re on in five!”

“Cut it off!”

“I’m not cutting your nipple off!”

“I meant the bead, you idiot!”

“I’m not cutting that either! I can’t present an award with half a mustache!”

“And you can’t present it while sucking on my chest hairs!”

“We’ll have to take the ring out-”

“What if it grows in?!”

“In an hour??”

“It could!”

“Oh for Valar’s sake-”

“I TOLD YOU NOT TO TAKE IT OFF!”

The piercing didn’t close in an hour, though Kili’s very angry thighs stayed closed for two days, much to Fili’s chagrin. 

In the end, Fili only gained his beloved’s forgiveness with a gift:

Two white-gold bars, with no evil curves for trapping beads or mustache braids.

\------

Kili loved Fili's wrists.

They were thick and strong, supple and fast from a lifetime of strings and music and rhythms. But they were delicate too, a network of veins beneath pale skin. And sensitive-

Yes.

A brush of fingers along those wrists made Fili shudder. When he was too deep in music, so far gone that he'd forget to eat or sleep, Kili could trace the sensitive skin with his fingertips or tease it with a flick of his tongue and Fili would come back to him, eyes dark and laughter at the corners of his lips. It wasn't random chance that Kili wanted their tattoos there, the ones Fili needed, their wedding vows in ink and blood. He chose the location carefully: that strong, sensitive wrist, bare for the world to see, begging for Kili's teeth and touch. Seeing Fíli sitting in the chair, wrist up on the arm, the needle tracing patterns in his skin, made Kíli half hard in seconds (the flashes of pain in his own wrist only amplifying it, the pride and excitement in Fíli’s quiet smile adding fuel until he was a little flushed and biting his lip), but filled him with a sort of possessive warmth that felt somehow more intimate than the embarrassing tightening in his groin.

When Fíli played, and that wrist - black ink and lust and love – was turned to the audience, Kíli didn’t bother to hide the smug satisfaction of knowing Fíli was his for the world to see.

On his bare right wrist, Fili usually wore a set of thin leather bracelets, strung with a few beads of gemstone: agate for protection, jade for luck, moonstone for inspiration, lapis lazuli for friendship, tiger eye for action. 

His favorite, though, was rainbow jasper, two wild splashes of color against Fili's pale wrist, and Kili knew his brother wore those for Kíli, that he associated Kíli with light and color. They were the first ones that drew Kili's fingers when he was bored or had too much energy; Kili would reach out and touch them, click them together, ignore the rolling of Fili's eyes as he slid them up and down the leather and grinned to himself at his brother's little shivers now and again.

It was almost deliberate at first, sensual teasing and brotherly annoyance, but over time it just became habit. When he couldn't sit still a moment longer but he couldn't go (had to stay, had to sit still for this interview or be polite during that meeting), he would reach out and touch Fili's wrist, tangle his hands in the strips, stroke the beads. Fíli would huff or twitch but never pulled away, always allowed Kíli’s eccentricities with good humor. 

It took some weeks for Kili to realize that he wasn't reaching out anymore; instead, he would squirm and fidget and suddenly Fili's hand was there, waiting. Fili wouldn't look at him, wouldn't stop speaking, but he would reach out because Kili needed it, offered his wrist and his beads in silent invitation. 

Kili laughed the first time he realized that they were moving so in synch, laughed at how ridiculously in love he was, and Fili shot him an amused look as Bilbo looked politely confused (new to the band and still feeling them out). But he took the offer, fiddled with the beads, stroked the sensitive skin, watched for the tiny shivers up his brother's arm-

Tangled their fingers together and squeezed.


	5. Vali/Dis: Paradise: M Rating

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Vali and Dis attempt to have a private vacation away from the boys and the band.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is lovingly dedicated to Ceallaig!

It took Dis and Vali longer than it should have to realize they could drop things and go on vacation whenever they wanted - kids no concern at all. They'd both spent 70-odd years worrying over their adorable offspring for being the incredible dorks they were, then the next six or so dealing with their adorable offspring being annoyingly in love with each other, so perhaps it was understandable that _Heirs_ was deep into recording their first album when Dis turned to her husband and said, apropos of nothing, "We need to go on a vacation."

"Oh? But the boys-"

Dis laid a hand over Vali's, and granted him a smile he'd rarely seen since before Fili was born. "Vali," she purred, and oh could that woman purr, "we can go on a vacation whenever, wherever we want, as clothing optional as we please, and not have to worry about the boys at all."

Vali stared at her. And blushed. And saw the deep wisdom in her words.

They considered the lake house, seeing as it was beautiful there, the bed was guaranteed to be comfortable, and it was paid for, but it was Vali who wisely pointed out, “The boys are likely to show up.”

And Dis sighed and agreed, “Naked.”

Which had only happened once, but it had been traumatizing for absolutely everyone involved.

So instead, they planned a trip to a sunny beachside resort, which had rooms specially prepared for Dwarves. Their room would look over the water, it wasn’t very large so there would be some privacy, and the beaches were famous for their white sands and crystal waters. 

“And I,” Vali said, looking terribly pleased, “haven’t been able to properly show you off in a bathing suit in years.”

Dis elbowed him hard, but he didn’t miss the pleased flush on the tips of her ears.

His wife was, no competition, the single most beautiful female in the mountain, and he did love showing her off.

(Thorin once accused him of being biased which was, of course, utter nonsense. Vali had eyes. Excellent ones, in fact. He could see what was right in front of his nose.)

Fíli, of course, took the news of their vacation with his usual calm, thoughtfully wishing them a great time. Kíli vibrated with energy, buying them each new towels and a beach blanket and a sort of flower clip for Dis’s hair that he found down in Dale. He practically bustled them to the airport, chattering all the way about how important it was that Dis use sunscreen (Fíli agreed, and they commiserated for a moment over a lifetime of sunburns while Vali and Kíli looked on, the evil tanners) and Vali be a gentleman and both of them have a good time and-

The flight was so peaceful, compared to the ride to the airport, beyond a minor scuffle over who got the window seat.

The beach was as beautiful as advertised, and they had a balcony with a gorgeous view of the water. The weather was warm without trying to melt the skin off, and Dis-

Ahhhh.

Dis was _beautiful._

Vali didn’t doubt he basically had stars in his eyes when he caught her in her new bathing suit. It showed off her lovely stomach and shoulders and back and bum and just-

Well.

It was extremely flattering, and he knew she’d had fun tugging Tauriel off on a shopping trip. 

They did not make it to the beach that afternoon. In fact, they didn’t make it out of the room. But they did go for a lovely walk along the sand that night, and she looked just as beautiful in a gauzy skirt that ruffled around her lovely, strong legs. 

(For her part, Dis found Vali as handsome as he found her, even if he was wearing a shirt covered in gaudy flowers that he’d bought at the airport in a Man’s shop, and was fully culpable in missing an entire four hours of sunshine.)

There was a bar right on the beach that sold truly strange drinks; not solid, rich ale or wines as Dwarves drank, but strangely colored fruity things with little umbrellas that insisted on poking the drinker in the eyeball on a regular basis. 

“I can’t decide if it’s disgusting or good,” Vali finally sighed, after the third time his pink paper thing poked him in the eyebrow, “because I’m in too much pain.”

“They’re good,” Dis assured him. “Order me another.”

He did, and through observation, they came to the conclusion that it was acceptable to remove the pointless decorations and get down to the fruity frozen booze. 

Deceptive booze, as it turned out, since the night’s marital exercises were interrupted by sudden naps. 

But waking up in each other’s arms in paradise was an acceptable outcome of any night drinking (and laughing at hungover Men they’d been drinking and laughing with was always entertaining!).

Amazingly, they were well into their first afternoon, settled in on the beach blanket their youngest had given them, when the first message came. They had their mobiles with them as a matter of both habit and to take pictures – though Dis had cut Vali off after finding no less than twelve pictures of her furry tum, six of her bum, and fifteen of her cleavage, along with a solid two dozen of her face. This had led to a tussle in the sand and a few kisses before she’d buried half of him and headed out for a swim.

They were a very mature couple, always.

The message was from Kíli, no surprise; they’d assumed he would break first. And, of course, he wrote to Vali.

Back in the early days, when the thought of their boys together was terrifying (they’d shed a lot of tears and talked for hours and curled up together, and yelled and fought and just – just – had to accept, learned to love), Fíli and Kíli had done their best to keep their relationship out of their parents’ faces. But as time passed, and Vali and Dis started to see the inevitability of it, the boys had started to reach out almost like normal children for their parents’ advice. Vali, due to his intervention in the middle of the night several years earlier, had inherited Kíli as his personal son to deal with in times of crises. 

_**Dad, how far past expiration date can milk be used in brownies?** _

Vali grinned, wiggled a bit in his sand tomb, and called out, “Kíli’s texting!” in a proper bellow that wafted over the lazy waves to the love of his life. 

Dis planted her feet and stood, water clinging to the intricate braids in her beard, sweeping back into her hair, so that she glittered like diamonds. Vali cursed softly at the cruelty of not being able to take another picture. And this one would’ve been appropriate for the boys! “Of course he did. We knew he’d break first.” She eyed him. “And what are you going to say?”

“Go ask your brother.”

She smiled, sunshine on the water. “Exactly.”

They had planned for this eventuality.

_**Ask your brother.** _

_Fíli doesn’t know about this stuff!_

_**He knows how to use the internet.** _

_Yeah, but I trust you more. You know, with food._

_**Kíli.** _

_What?_

_**I am ogling your mother in her new two-piece** _

_DAD!_

_**And not interested in your milk problem** _

_I’m just….. gonna go for it I’m sure it’s fine. Love you!_

Vali spared a moment of concern for his offspring, but then his beautiful wife motioned for him from the water and he had to wiggle free of the sand and join her.

(He threatened to take off his trunks then and there because he had so much sand in them, and she only smiled coyly at him until he decided it was time they turn in for a bit.)

\----

Fíli was the next to crack.

They were having a lovely breakfast on their balcony, watching the sunrise on the ocean, when a quick violin trill on Dis’s phone indicated a message from their elder son.

She plucked it up, considered for a moment if she should feel awkward writing her son when she was wearing nothing but a wonderfully soft robe, decided she didn’t care. After all, Vali was similarly dressed, though his full love and attention were currently focused entirely on the pile of tomatoes, poached eggs, and bacon on his plate. He wouldn’t have eyes for robes or their contents for at least ten minutes.

_Mom, I think Kíli poisoned us._

_**It happens, dear** _

_Pretty sure we’re gonna die. Remember us fondly._

_**Of course. Keep a bucket by the bed and call Thorin if there’s an actual emergency.** _

_How long should we lie here, dying, before going to hospital?_

_**You’re not dying. You sound like your brother.** _

_…I hate seeing Kíli sick, Mom._

Dis smiled. _**I know,**_ she answered, because he always had, even when they were little, even when they were in their twenties and spent most of their time snarling at each other, Fíli would worry himself into exhaustion over his brother. Dwarves didn’t get sick often, though the over use of antibiotics in the world of Men was creating viruses and bacteria that could defeat even a strong Dwarven constitution. This was especially prevalent in Erebor-Dale, since so many of the Dwarves traveled freely through the Men’s city. 

There’d even been votes, a couple of decades earlier, to seal off the mountain. It had been soundly shouted down by Dwarves who knew their open dealings with Men were the backbone of their economy.

_**Both of you rest. Try to drink some broth, just use the bouillon cubes or have Dwalin get you some, don’t let Kíli try to do anything fancy. Drink lots of water so you don’t get dehydrated, and a cool bath might help.** _

_Okay. Yeah, bath’d be a good idea._

_**Only bathing, of course. Weak constitutions and all. Can’t enjoy it as well as your father and I can. The tub here is huge, absolutely could fit at least four dwarves per, and plenty of elbow room** _

_MOTHER!_

Dis smiled, thoroughly satisfied.

The boys only called her mother when she was being especially embarrassing.

“What’s up?” Vali asked, finally rising from his now empty plate with an expression of utter peace. He even looked handsome in the morning, a bit of egg on his beard and his hair a mess around his face. She’d put him to rights, though, before she showed him off in public.

Dis plopped her feet on his knee and he pushed away from the table, digging his fingers into the right sole. She fought down a pleased moan – the man was a genius. “Apparently the boys have food poisoning.”

Vali made a little noise. “Maybe I should have told him not to use expired milk in those brownies after all…” He sounded mildly distressed, as he would; Vali was the cuddly parent in this relationship, and he’d get himself into a guilt-induced bother if Dis didn’t redirect him.

“It would take more than that, love.” She smiled, a special, slow smile that Fíli had inherited. “They’ll be fine, it’s just a bit of stomach upset.” She wiggled the toes of her free foot against his belly. “You and I have better things to worry about.”

Vali chewed on his lip a moment, then shook his head. “You’re right.” He grinned. “Today is for shopping, isn’t it?”

Dis laughed. If there was one thing her Vali loved doing, it was shopping for borderline tacky but somehow attractive tourist stuff. She had a feeling there were shell ornaments in her future, and she didn’t mind at all.

\----

When Dwalin started texting, Dis had had enough.

_Your sons tell me they’re dying and I’m to provide them with soup for the afterlife._

_**So give them soup and leave me to my romantic walks on the beach.** _

_Romantic? I heard Vali got pinched by a crab._

_**That bit was more hilarious than romantic.** _

_Excellent picture. The crab hanging off his ass looked as traumatized as Vali._

_**I do my best. But now I’m thinking I’ll kiss it better so the boys are your problem.** _

_Yay_

Dis snapped the phone shut and looked down at the devilishly handsome dwarf currently trapped between her thighs. He grinned up at her and rubbed his thumbs invitingly on the thighs in question.

“Turn the phone off,” he suggested.

“What if there’s a real emergency?”

“Then they’ll do the grown up thing and call the hotel.” The thumbs slid a little higher. “But aren’t you a bit out of the mood for interruptions just now?” He raised an interrogative eyebrow and let his dark eyes flicker down her body.

Dis smiled back, flicked the phone off, and threw it over one shoulder (Dwarven phones were designed to take punishment). Then she rotated her hips just so before leaning down to kiss the pleased groan off her husband’s mouth. “Oh, yes,” she said, shifting downward. “I was going to help you with that poor injury that crab gave you earlier today.”

Vali’s eyes brightened. “Oh, love of my life,” he said warmly, “please do.”

\---

The phones weren’t turned back on until they checked out of the hotel three days later.

The person with the most messages bought lunch at the seafood place that stretched over the beach. Vali was certain Fíli’s concern for Kíli’s health would somehow overcome Kíli’s pitiful sickly chattiness-he was wrong.

Dis ordered the biggest pile of lobster he’d ever seen, looking terribly smug as she did it.

But at least she shared.


	6. Mountains and Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They all have moments they can't explain: a dream, a face, a song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Exactly how canon this is depends on the reader. This was written for the Summer Fandom Raffle Exchange on tumblr, and reveals a bit of secret headcanon concerning the _Heirs of Durin_.

**_Little Dis adores both her big brothers._ **

They’re both tall and strong and usually nice, and given to spoiling a pretty little sister.

Thorin takes care of her as often as her parents do, making dinner or tucking her in or helping her read. He can be bossy sometimes, but she doesn’t grow tired of him like her friends do. She keeps right on loving and tolerating him, except when she has to tell him to back off, of course.

But Frerin-

Dis adores Frerin.

She adores his smile, and his laugh, and his eyes – not Durin blue like hers, but hazel, all brown and amber. She adores the way he plays with her, and carries her around, and sneaks her treats when she’s been bad.

But there is something-

Dis is the baby of her family, but she knows, deep in her heart, she must protect Frerin.

She thinks Thorin knows it too.

They work together, the two of them, to save him from punishments and help him pursue his interests. Frerin is special, though neither would ever try to put that in words.

The older Dis grows, the more precious Frerin becomes.

Precious, and beloved, and almost wrapped in fear.

When the images flicker on the screen of a plane in flames, Dis sobs against Thorin’s stiff, unmoving arm, and wonders if the reason he burned so bright is because he had to leave them so soon.

**_The first song Thorin finds in his careful excavations of the ancient archives is worn and crumbling in his hands._ **

The words aren’t as clear as they once were, and some have faded entirely. It will be a challenge to make sense from the smudged, disintegrating remains.

He mumbles under his breath, brushes his hair out of his way.

He still feels odd without his proper beard, but the archivists assured him it would not only be a mess of dust and bits of paper, but would also rub against the texts and damage them. He gave it up easily.

This is more important.

“The King beneath,” he mutters under his breath, “mountains? Mountain. The king of….carved. carven? Craven? …carven. Carven stone.”

It’s long work and yet-

He speeds up, the words come easier, the blanks filled almost effortlessly.

_Getting the hang of it_ , he thinks, and smiles to himself as he hums under his breath.

The words are beautiful, clearly a prophecy of one of the great kings of old-

_His crown shall be upholden,_  
His harp shall be restrung,  
His halls shall echo golden  
To songs of yore re-sung 

“Yes,” he murmurs, and grins among his short beard, because that’s what he wants, what he’s searching for, this music, these songs, so long lost.

But then-

His breath catches.

His chest feels tight, and for a moment he cannot move.

“ _The bells shall ring in gladness at the mountain king’s return_ ,” he whispers, and he shakes.

Deep inside, he shakes.

“ _But all shall fall in sadness_ ,” and for a moment, the world spins, the stone trembles, “ _and the lake shall shine and burn_.”

Thorin dedicates his life to re-imagining the music of his ancestors.

But though a melody dances through the words, strangely familiar, he never publishes this first, delicate find.

**_Gimli is only 14 when his teacher first talks about the great monsters of the past._ **

“The Balrog,” she says, “lay in the deep of Moria, and was described a number of ways; too many, sadly, for us to know how he truly appeared.”

Gimli’s crayon slides across the paper, flits, and maybe his eyes are wide with something like fear, but there is no hesitation:

He draws a beast of great height, with curved horns and leathery wings, and he swirls orange and gold and yellow in a veil of fire all around.

_A Monster in the Deep_ he writes at the bottom, his usual childish letters strong and sharp, and he almost but doesn’t quite add, _It is coming._

He stares at it.

His hands shake, tighten, tear the edges of the paper.

He crumples it up and throws it away before his teacher can see it.

**_When Ori is almost thirty, the new museum at Moria is opened to the public._ **

Dori, who always believes in touching history when you can, looks into tickets and talks about trains and pulls up pictures of the restored walls. 

Ori is fascinated – he asks about the libraries, and the former concert hall, and-

And Nori.

Nori panics.

It isn’t like him. Nori is the calm one, sly and quiet and teasing; Dori is the one who worries and fusses and creates scenarios of danger in his mind.

But this time, something leaden falls in Nori’s gut, and twists, and his throat tightens so he can’t breathe, like a sob he won’t let out.

“No!” he snaps, and he doesn’t know why, but he can’t stop. “No! Moria is all about death-”

Dori looks at him, confused. “It’s a museum-“

“Death,” Nori says again, and words swim before his eyes, elegant but shaky, and smeared with blood, and that blood feels like Ori. “No. No, find somewhere else.”

Dori is confused, but he must see something in Nori’s eyes, in his clenched fists, in the shiver across his shoulders.

He plans a different trip, and Ori never sets foot in the great kingdom of their ancestors.

**_Bofur knows Bilbo the first time he sees him._ **

There’s no logic in it, but Bofur is a romantic at heart, and so he doesn’t try to force it to make sense.

He just knows that face, though-

\- it should be thinner.

And dirty.

And so, so brave.

And something in Bofur tells him 

_I left you behind once_

Though they’re strangers, and it’s impossible.

And he determines, at the end of their first date, laughing over coffee and pastry, that he will not walk away from those eyes and hands and that twitching nose this (first) time.

**_Fíli doesn’t talk about his dreams._ **

He doesn’t know why. Even as a child, when he would wake from nightmares

-terrors, his mother called them-

-and they were, they were, blood and screams and monsters in the deep, and lying in the snow beneath a dark shadow (sobbing, shouting), so cold, so cold-

He never told his parents what he saw, even when his father wrapped him up warm and close and said, “We can chase those mean dreams away if you tell me what you see.”

He was too young then, and he didn’t have the words to speak of war.

Later, as his dreams shift and change, he doesn’t have the words to speak of death, doesn’t have the strength to remember them.

How can he remember death when he has never died?

_Not once, much less–_

**_Kíli knows he’s not like other dwarves._ **

Sexual desire awakens with love, when the body is grown and filled out-

But Kíli is only 55 when he has his first dream, still too-skinny, only a downy hint of hair trailing down his belly to the part of him that hardens as he moans in his bed.

He dreams of rich brown hair, of broad shoulders-

Blond hair, curls down his chest, smaller-

Rich black hair, streaked with white-

Moans and hands and heat and kisses and-

The same blue eyes.

Always.

It takes him years to recognize them above his brother’s familiar smile.

He thinks, maybe, that’s why he never questions falling in love with Fíli, the way Kíli’s body aches for him.

When his drums pound with passion and he has to wrap himself around that body and kiss that neck and let Fíli know how much Kíli wants him, a press of hips before he dances away-

He knows those eyes, and that soul.

He always has.

**_There are times Dwalin thinks his life would be easier if he could just let Thorin go._ **

The prince is moody and difficult, and now this entire business with the boys…

He understands Thorin’s fears, certainly better than Fíli does, that it’s not about disgust but about safety, about privacy, and it comes from a place of awkward, deep love.

But sometimes-

-Sometimes it would be easier not to play the part of bridge between the people he loves most in the world.

But then there are dreams-

Dreams of Thorin, sprawled in the snow, a hint of gold hair to one side, and brown to the other-

And blood.

So much blood.

Blue eyes staring into a snowy sky.

The screech of eagles.

Thorin wears a crown, ancient and heavy and beautiful on his pale brow.

_And yet you are lesser now than you have ever been._

And Dwalin tries again to talk sense into his old friend.

**_There are songs that Bilbo writes, and there are songs that form themselves in the ink of his pen._ **

The former are far more common, and far more work, but the latter…

…The latter are…

They tangle up his soul, he thinks.

The rhymes that pour from his pen are sometimes nonsense.

There is one about cows and moons that Bofur loves, and sings around the house to his own old dwarven ditty, but Bilbo’s reputation as a brilliant lyricist would be utterly destroyed if it traveled past their walls.

There is the song about travel, the one he wrote on his very first train ride, the first time he left the Shire.

_The Road goes ever on and on_  
Down from the door where it began.  
Now far ahead the Road has gone,  
And I must follow, if I can 

This one he likes, and almost offers to Elrond’s children, but something holds him back. He keeps the song close and safe for years, until the day he meets Vali in the depths of Erebor, and hears him play.

He offers it then, and the tune is sprightly and joyful on his husband’s flute and Vali’s guitar and his own passable voice.

There is one, too, that makes his heart flutter with strange excitement, even as tears press behind his eyes.

He knows the tune to it.

It dances through his mind, and he hums it sometimes, when he’s sad.

_Far over the misty mountains cold…._

This song he never shares. 

But sometimes-

-sometimes he hears the tune, hummed low and carelessly by Kili, or Dwalin, or Balin, or Gloin.

Or Bofur.

And he shivers as he keeps the words hidden away.

**_Elves do not dream._ **

And so it is not a dream Legolas has, of a boat taking shape under his hands.

He does not dream of an ocean his father will not allow him to see.

He does not dream of the call of gulls.

He does not dream of a deep laugh, rough and weak with age, or a dwarf with silver hair and clever hands, gnarled and ancient but still as strong as the day they met (so he tells himself, as he folds them in his own).

Legolas does not dream, and yet-

-when he closes his eyes, and rests his hand on Gimli’s chest (loves the feel of his breaths as he falls into sleep), he sees these things.

And he wonders.

**_There are those who say Fíli has an old soul._ **

The first to say so was his grandmother, as she watched him holding his brother for the first time, his hands sure and infinitely careful as he shifts the newborn in his own small arms.

“Like he was born to be a big brother,” she laughs, “what a gentle, old soul.”

She is not the last to speak so of Fili’s soul.

When Fíli plays, when he closes his eyes and rides the music, there is something timeless about him.

The curve of his neck, the tilt of his head, his eyes-

-suddenly sharp and piercing, as an entire orchestra rises to his command.

An old soul, commanding and wise.

An old soul, like a king who has seen death and lived to tell about it.

An old soul, almost frightening-

Until Kíli is beside him, and smiling, and teasing, and then the ages fall away, and there is only Fíli-

A mischievous smirk, a flash of dimples, the twist of his hips against his brother’s-

An old soul, bound tightly to another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _There are reasons that Fili and Kili seem to have more than one remembered past, which is a part of the story Your Heart Pounding._


	7. FiKi, Boffins, Nori/Tauriel/Astrid: Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Heirs of Durin wouldn't survive without Astrid - a human who feeds their need for caffeine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy birthday to damnitfili ! This silliness is dedicated to you for being a wonderful human being and maker of edits (squeaks and flails there are Heirs edits!) and generally everything to do with you. 
> 
> Special thanks to kailthia for the Dori dogs headcanon b/c it’s precious and perfect (including the current name), and to tigerliliesandcherryblossoms , linane-art, ceallaig1, anathema-cat, lakritzwolf, leaper182, damnitfili, and kailthia for Heirs coffee headcanons, as I know nothing whatsoever about coffee. :D

Despite the close ties between Erebor and Dale (so close, in fact, that everyone outside Erebor called it Erebor-Dale), only a handful of Men worked in the mountain, and none lived there.

While the human portion of the city had long ago adjusted itself to life on two scales, the ancient rooms and halls of the mountain were still entirely designed for dwarves. “Or giants,” the few humans in the mountain would say, because everything in Erebor was built on a grand scale until it was time to sit down.

One of those rare humans her made her living inside the stone walls was Astrid Damar, owner and proprietress of the _Caffeinated Khazad_ , a name that had evoked a great deal of controversy when her mother first opened the shop thirty years earlier.

She met Dwalin first, when she was only a teenager. He seemed big to her then and still did today – at only an inch over five feet, Astrid was taller than most of the dwarves but small enough to be awed by their wide shoulders and heavy muscle. He became a regular – coffee, extra dark, though he sneaked in spoonfuls of sugar when he thought no one was looking – and though he usually took a quiet mug alone, he always had a smile for a young human who was a bit starry eyed in his presence.

It was Dwalin who told Astrid who Fíli and Kíli were, years later when she was all grown up and had taken over the shop. They came in together, bumping shoulders and sharing looks full of affection and enough sexual energy to set most coffee shops ablaze. Luckily, the Caffeinated Khazad was made of stone. 

Something about the pair tickled at her brain. They were young, though adults, and there was something about their faces that was oddly familiar. By the time she knew Kíli was a caramel macchiato with occasional explorations in the realm of cinnamon dulce frappe, and Fíli was a seemingly unpredictable order that actually matched the time of day – espressos in the morning, coffee in the afternoon – she still couldn’t place them.

And it got on her nerves.

In fact, in got on her nerves to the point that she was muttering to herself about it when she “happened” to refill the sugar next to Mister Dwalin’s elbow, just in case her long-time customer wanted to sneak some into his coffee.

“Check your mother’s diary,” he growled, seemingly apropos of nothing.

The growl didn’t bother her – Mister Dwalin always growled – but she couldn’t make heads or tails of the comment. “Pardon?”

“If you’re trying to figure out who those two are, check your mother’s diary. I recall her having quite the crush on them in her young days, like half the mountain and at least a third of Dale.” He sipped his coffee, sugarless. It was a very small sip indeed. 

Of course. The strangest and most difficult aspect of being a human in a mountain of dwarves was the difference in lifespans. These two would have looked much the same, albeit thinner and possibly beardless, when her mother was young. “Or I could just ask you,” she pointed out, grinning at his small smile in response.

Despite the smile, he didn’t answer immediately. Instead he watched them, tucked in close at a table, dark and light and charming the baristas with Kíli’s innate friendliness and Fíli’s quiet thanks. They were, in a move of utter adorableness, holding hands. “They’re…” his voice trailed off, then picked up again, stronger. “They’re my cousins. Thorin’s nephews.” Thorin she knew – plain black, no frills, a sort of caffeine infusion. It was hard to imagine Dwalin’s serious, polite best friend as these boys’ uncle. “Names are Fíli and Kíli. They’ve been fairly famous, on and off, since Fíli would have been king, once upon a time.”

She’d known the names, having written them on her share of cups when they wanted drinks to go instead of sitting properly in the shop and drinking out of mugs, and _of course –_

She really did know them from her mother’s diary.

Or, at least, from a box she’d unearthed as a teenager from her mother’s college years, stuffed with more than a few dwarvish magazines with articles about the young princes who weren’t princes at all. There’d been pictures of Fíli’s slow smile and Kíli’s sunny grin, as she recalled, and something about Kíli shooting things with a bow.

“Teenage heartthrobs!” she laughed. “I remember.”

Mister Dwalin snorted and reached surreptitiously for the sugar.

It didn’t occur to her until later that night that they were _both_ his cousins, and with matching names like that-

Two days later the pair of them ordered a huge iced frappe with whipped cream and caramel, two straws in one drink like teenagers with a milkshake, and laughed and held hands and gazed romantically at each other and, well.

They were such dorks that she just couldn’t hold anything against them at that point.

The next time they made such a ridiculous order, she made sure the straws were curly and striped, just to add to the overall effect.

~~~~~~

Ori Scribner was one of the most adorable things Astrid had ever seen, and she couldn’t help taking an immediate liking to him. Like many dwarves outside Erebor, he didn’t know a great deal about coffee. Astrid’s mother had been the first person to feel that dwarves, dedicated ale and tea drinkers for generations, could use with an influx of caffeine, sugar, and milk; the Iron Hills was the only other dwarven city that had a shop in-mountain. The first time he came in, a helpful Fíli at his side, he stared up at the menu for a full five minutes, trying to make heads or tails of it.

“What do you…what do you suggest?” he finally asked her, more than a little overwhelmed.

“How about just a nice café au lait?” she suggested. “It’s a good gateway drug.”

He grinned, and she couldn’t help but beam back.

In the end, after a time of careful experimentation, Ori settled in as a latte macchiato, skimmed milk with cinnamon sprinkles. 

He always got a steamed milk mustache, and it suited him perfectly.

~~~~~~

Dis was a vanilla latte and Vali was a dark roast with a side of embarrassing stories about Fíli and Kíli (FiKi, Astrid called them, and Dis loved it) as children. Sometimes they even set them to music, Dis’s booming soprano and Vali’s rough baritone set to his guitar. They played right there in the café, much to the other patrons’ delight, and there were always calls for encores when they sang that ridiculous song about Kíli and the rashvines.

Kíli would turn red and tell them to stop, but they never did.

~~~~~

Bofur was a cheerful drinker of “one of those fancy creamers with a splash of coffee please, if you don’t mind, lass,” or the occasional peppermint hot chocolate, and always left an excellent tip. He was also a deep reservoir of excellent stories, and so became a fast favorite not only of the staff but also some of the patrons, though his husband did occasionally remind him “we’re not in a bar, dear,” in a warm voice that nonetheless brooked no opposition.

Bilbo had a talent for looking sweet and yet being terribly bossy.

Bilbo was a tea, black and infused with flowers. When he first arrived Astrid hadn’t carried any such thing; dwarves didn’t go in for flowers much. He’d looked so wretchedly disappointed when he could only get teas with lemongrass or (and Astrid shuddered to think of it) beef flavoring that he’d broken Astrid’s heart a bit. Bofur’s too, as it was – he’d wrapped an arm around Bilbo’s shoulder and given it a squeeze. “We’ll order you some in, love,” he said soothingly.

He did order some in. 

And he brought it to the shop.

“I’d not be telling you how to do your job,” he assured Astrid, “but it’s hard enough fitting in when you’re a Hobbit among dwarves without having to haul around a teapot and Bunsen burner everywhere you go.” He’d been so serious, in his friendly way, as he talked Astrid into having tea there, just in case.

_Oh dear_ , she thought, _they’re as cute as FiKi, in their way._

A month after Bilbo’s arrival, there was a small tea bar set up in the back of the shop – green and black tea leaves, dried flowers, dried citrus, and so on – all bankrolled secretly by Bofur Baggins, former lead guitarist of _Iron Hills_ and current ray of sunshine in the fledgling and overworked _Heirs of Durin_. He didn’t have to bankroll it long – the bar did a modest business, and a careful eye soon discovered that Bilbo was a black tea with citrus and lavender, splash of milk in the morning only.

~~~~~~

Legolas was the first elf Astrid ever met, and he arrived in the care of Gimli (house roast, one cream), another cousin of Mister Dwalin’s who always seemed a bit grumpy but was actually a sweetheart with the cutest, toothy little smile in the entire mountain. Legolas was as confused be the whole thing as Ori had been, but one sip of coffee was enough, he claimed, to last him a lifetime.

“Disgusting.”

“No it’s not, Elf. It’s delicious. Shut up and drink.”

“It tastes,” Legolas declared, “like dirt with milk tossed on top. No wonder you dwarves like it.”

Gimli glared at him. “Yer bein’ rude, Elf!” he barked. “Astrid is right there!”

As charmed as Astrid was to have Gimli step up as her knight in shining leather, she had to set him straight. “It’s fine, Gimli. I’m not emotionally attached to coffee, just the coffee drinkers.” She winked at Legolas. “How about some tea?”

“That would be lovely,” he answered, then turned a smug sort of smile on Gimli that said, without a single word, _I told you so_. “And some for Gimli as well. Something herbal. He could use a little relaxation.”

When Astrid set it in front of him, Gimli looked horrified.

And yet, by the time Kíli called and begged her to somehow deliver drinks to their studio for the first time, Gimli was taking strong black tea as often as he did coffee. 

“I’m a good influence,” Legolas said, lifting the cardboard tray she’d personally hauled through the mountain and passing out the drinks. Gimli muttered he only ordered tea to get Legolas to stop complaining about coffee in his mustache.

Astrid’s eyebrows went up. So did Fíli, Kíli, and Ori’s.

They all shared a look.

And a knowing grin.

~~~~~~~

Dori was a darling (chamomile or the occasional hot chocolate when he was alone) and Nori was a scamp (who knew?? He ordered coffee doublesweet when he travelled solo, but if Dori was with him he came up with complex orders that Astrid’s poor baristas had to write down, and Dori rolling his eyes impatiently the whole time) and they both loved Ori unconditionally. They were best as a trio – Nori’s long orders and Dori’s rolling eyes and Ori’s fond exasperation with them both always brightened her day – but she liked each of the brothers individually as well.

Dori knew more about brewing tea than it seemed possible to know, and Astrid actually learned a good bit from him. He was fair in return, learning about coffee though he said he didn’t care a great deal for the smell. When he was in an especially good mood, Dori ordered hot chocolate with whipped cream and caramel, setting up at a back table and pulling out his latest knitting for a lengthy stay. 

“I need some peace,” he’d tell her, and she could understand that. Over the months, she’d become a regular in and out of the Heirs’ rehearsal space, and it seemed a very noisy sort of place. “It’s like wrangling cats. Noisy, large, creative, argumentative cats.”

Dori was a dog person. His current dog was a 125 pound ball of fluff with the unlikely name Macaroon, and how she managed to sleep through rehearsals was a mystery to Astrid. Dogs were pretty unusual among dwarves who, due to living inside mountains with limited space and even more limited greenery, weren’t known for keeping pets. Macaroon was the latest in a long line of proud bitches owned by the Ri family (as Astrid thought of them in her head) however, and Dori had pictures of all of the past pups loaded on his phone. They were, to a dog, the ugliest things she’d ever seen.

“Nori picks them,” Dori said, “and he always reckons we should get one who might not find a home otherwise.”

For her part, Macaroon had a terrible underbite that made her look like a reverse vampire and was slightly cross-eyed. She never met a stranger, though, and had a terrible crush on the band’s elves. “Especially Tauriel,” Dori told her when she took her break at his table one day, sipping the house brew and watching his hands flash through the yarn, “and I’m not sure she knows what to make of all this slobbery affection.”

When Astrid made her deliveries, Macaroon usually met her at the door with an ankle kiss and a cheerful woof. 

Nori, of course, was unlike any dwarf Astrid had ever known.

He was-

Well.

She’d always had a bit of a _thing_ for dwarves (not so unlike her mother, if the teen dwarf mags meant anything), and it was nice to explore said thing with a willing, dry, talented partner.

And, of course, he introduced her to Tauriel.

~~~~~

Tauriel wasn’t anything at all, because she wanted to try something new as often as she could. She was bright and vivacious and beautiful, and Astrid had a healthy crush on her well before they ended up in bed together.

It was Tauriel who made sure Astrid had an invitation to all of their shows, and Tauriel who personally delivered the signed copy of the Heirs’ self-titled debut album, autographed by all the band members, including Thorin and Dis. 

Astrid’s hands practically shook as she opened the case, overcome by emotion at the thought of these kind customers who had become friends making it, at the possibility of success on the horizon.

There, on the inside of the booklet tucked in the case, was something she didn’t expect to see-

Above the dedication was a picture of a set of paper coffee cups, lined up on one of the familiar shelves in the Heirs studio, each one signed by one of her baristas. In the center was one with her own signature – Bofur had asked for it, and he was such a playful thing at times she didn’t even think about what he’d want a signed cup for. And beneath it, in Fíli’s crisp handwriting, were the words

_Dedicated to Astrid Damar and the baristas of the Caffeinated Khazad, whose warmth, friendship, and emergency coffee runs kept of going when we would have collapsed or killed each other._  
With love,   
The Heirs of Durin 


	8. Fans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look into a new set of minds - the fans.

1.  
It isn’t her first time seeing them. Not even the second. But it is the first time the concert is about _them_ , the first time she’s waited through two agonizing hours of opening acts before the piped-in music goes silent and the entire stage goes-

Black

A sweep of lights over the audience, hundreds of people sucking in a shared anticipatory breath.

One light, cool and blue, a twirl of smoke and the scent of strong dwarven ale.

She sees them moving in the darkness, just shadows, heavy boots and high heels and one pair of feet, bare and silent.

The light focuses, grows. Bare feet, black leather, a hint of dark blond curls-

A single note rises through the air, high and clear and perfect before his face lifts into the light. Blue eyes and a slow smile that promised everything.

"Evening," Fili Durin purrs.

Drums pound, guitars growl, and the crowd's thrilled screams rise in riotous harmony.

2.  
There's a drop of elvish blood in the dark past of his human line. A drop that manifests as just a little too slim and eyes a little too bright; just enough for a lifetime of teasing and a sense that he’s not quite _right_. But despite being called one in mocking voices, he knows almost nothing about elves, has never seen one in person until tonight.

She is breathtaking.

Wrapped in green cloth, her hair a fall of red, Tauriel raises her arms and sings with all the passion of her years. How many? A thousand? Two? The magazines never say.

The elves abandoned the world generations ago. They are little more than legend-

Until Tauriel stands tall and a little too thin, her eyes much too bright, and brings her people back into the world for a precious twist of time.

3.  
It’s been decades, but they still remember. They were young and in love and told, again and again, that it was impossible. It was illegal. How would it even work? In centuries of recorded Ardan history, there had been a precious handful of great friendships between dwarves and elves, more between dwarves and humans, but a dwarf had never married outside their race.

But they didn’t care. 

He was tall and dark and she was small and square, but they knew they fit together perfectly.

They were together for almost forty years before the laws in their homeland changed. Gondor was the most tradition-bound of all the Human lands, but it was _home_. They wanted to marry in the country of his birth, where she had come to live at his side, one of only a few dozen dwarves to live in the White City. 

Now they stand together in the flash of lights, the growl of the guitars so loud that they can feel them in the pads of their feet, their hands intertwined. Their wedding rings click together. She comes only to his waist, but he laughs and lifts her onto the low wall to the side balcony. He looks much older than she, though she is his elder by sixty years.

On stage, a dwarf plays his guitar like a weapon, leaning into it, his mouth parted in a sly grin. He is standing on a lift, putting him more of a height with the tall, slender elf who is their bassist. The elf who watches him, and laughs, and leans down until their foreheads are almost touching as the rest of the band falls silent for their powerful duet.

No one yells epitaphs at them for breaking the natural order.

She laughs, loud and so very dwarvish, and he grabs her waist as if she might fall, and she pulls him in for a powerful kiss, there among the throng. She tastes like dark ale and strawberries, and her beard is soft against his bare chin.

Times change, and sometimes those who fought for freedoms get to see it come to fruition - all while loving the music and having, perhaps, a bit more ale than good taste would dictate.

4.  
She doesn’t care what anyone says; Ori Scribner is _hot_.

Her friends, predictable as always, are screaming over Fíli and Kíli and Gimli. They were all attractive, sure – she wouldn’t mind seeing Gimli especially without a shirt. Mmm. So much fur. (She says this even though really she blushes a bit at the sight of Fíli’s chest and shoulders – it takes some getting used to!)

But _Ori._

Ori with his hands flying over the keys, forgetting to look all cute and shy like he tends to, occasionally grinning when he and Kíli start playing against each other-

Ori is just.

Wow.

His cheeks flush some and sometimes she can hardly see his hands moving, they dart so quickly from note to note. He has four different keyboards set up, and he never, never misses a not.

The Fíli Fans and Gimli Girls and Kíli Cotarie can keep their Heirs. She’ll be Ori Obsessed forever. <3

Her favorite moment is when the lights flash from him to Kíli – drum, keyboard, drum, keyboard, like two dwarves at war. Her friends scream Kíli’s name as he grins at the audience, something wild in his eyes, dark along his jaw. But she calls out Ori’s name, and for one incredible moment his focused gaze flicks her way and he-

He _winks_ at her!

She’s sure of it!

She doesn’t swoon, but it’s a near thing indeed.

5.  
Her grandchildren assume she’s too old to listen to any music, much less the indescribable, decidedly controversial Heirs of Durin. As if she hadn’t been to more metal concerts in her day than they even knew existed. As if she didn’t have a fully autographed tour poster not only from Iron Hills, but also from Mithrallica, Molten Gold, and Bloodletter. 

Kids these days.

Back in the day, she used to show up three hours early or more, camped out in leather and chains, beard spiked, as badass as possible. But now she’s a “little old lady,” and all these young fools are so astonished by her appearance that she can roll right past them and score a spot in the very front.

No more standing on shoulders for her.

She’s here for the music, of course, and the noise, and the beer. And maybe, because she’s not dead, dammit, she’s here because tonight Thorin Oakenshield is going to be playing live.

On his harp.

Between his thighs.

His lovely, muscular thighs.

Mmmmm.

A young wannabe in purple hair tries to elbow her out of the way, but she has a cane and knows how to use it. 

Don’t try to out rock a rocker, kid.

And don’t stand between a determined old lady and Thorin Oakenshield’s thighs, even if she has traded her axe for a cane.

6.  
He’s only 27 years old, and it takes two months of concentrated begging and pointedly doing extra chores to convince his mother that he could attend the concert. He’s wondered once or twice if all the dishes, mopping, vacuuming, and litter box changed were worth it, but now he’s here, and the music is _everywhere_ and yes. Yes.

It is _totally_ worth all the hard work!

Would do again, in a heartbeat.

Because here he is, up in the balcony (“Less people to trample you up here, now you stay close to me, no wandering off!”), and below him is a sea of people and beyond the sea is the _band_ and in the back of the band is _Kíli Durin._

The absolute best drummer in the history of the universe (no matter what Kíli says, because he always says old Bombur was the best drummer, but Bombur is old and Iron Hillsias retired and Kíli is 100% better).

He knows he’s going to be a drummer when he grows up the first time he sees Kíli play on the television. Kíli has a huge drum set and a wild grin and when Kili plays it’s like he goes to another place where no one can bother him.

He wants that too.

He’s definitely getting a drum set, no matter what his father says about making everyone in the family deaf.

Watching Kíli makes him excited, and makes him dream of the future, and makes him…blush.

Because _maybe_ his sister, annoying as she his, has a tiny little point when she says that his love for Kíli’s music includes just a teensie tiny hint of a crush.

But it’s not his fault Kíli is so _pretty_ on top of everything else.

He hopes no one can see how dark his blush is in the teeming, singing crowd. 

_Especially_ his mother.

7\.   
The accident was thirty years ago, but she’s never forgotten the overwhelming terror as her bike swung out of control. She’s never forgotten the horror of waking with one arm gone and the other in danger of following. She’s never forgotten the years of therapy and the growing, gnawing sense that her craft was gone. She’s never forgotten what depression is, dogging your every step.

She would never make music again. She would be that most terrible of stories: a dwarf without a craft.

She’s also never forgotten the first time she saw Iron Hills. The way the music tore through her, the way it made her move-

The sight of Bifur’s hands, twisted and injured, as he growled out his frustrations into the mike.

The first time she tried to pick up drumsticks with her feet, it was because of Bifur, and Bombur, and Bofur.

It took years, but she found a way. Found a way to play the drums, found a way to make a special set. With each album they released, she pushed herself to learn Bombur’s drumline. Then she moved to Bofur’s guitar, teaching herself to play with one weak hand (growing stronger by the day) and the opposite foot.

When their farewell tour kicked off, she met them. Just once. But they pulled her on stage and had her play, right next to Bofur.

And she felt whole again.

Then Iron Hills broke up. It broke her heart, yes, but it didn’t break her spirit. She kept playing, kept pushing, and eventually became a member of a band that did well in local bars and pubs, even if they were never known outside Orocarni.

It’s a good life, though she can’t help missing that first band that brought her out of her funk and back into the world of music.

Years later, Bofur comes back.

He appears out of nowhere with this bizarre troupe, playing strange music, and not even guitar – but everything it seems – recorder, flute, mandolin, bagpipe, clarinet – even a tin whistle that dances as fast as Ori’s fingers can move and an ocarina that matches Tauriel note for note.

She comes to the concert, and watches him play, and hears the music – different here, visceral, thrumming through her stomach. It’s like being young again. But not scared this time – exhilarated, amazed, wondering if she could take up the clarinet and betting herself, after everything, that she can.

She watches and calls and sings and-

-stares, astonished, when Bofur whistles his way down right, plops down on the edge of the stage, and plays a solo just for her. 

“Great last album, love,” he calls cheerfully. “It’s one of Bifur’s favorites. He sent it straight to me!”

She laughs, and cries a little, and moves with the music, both arms raised, without a trace of self-consciousness. 

8.  
They come out of a sense of morbid curiosity.

It’s not as if they don’t fit in. To their surprise, there are other middle-aged dwarves around – some dressed as outrageously as Dwalin’s cousins, others in business clothing, still others in the same sort of comfortable flannel and leather as the trio from the orchestra. 

They know about the group, of course. They even played for the Heirs’ symphonic album. But there was a disconnect there – seeing Dwalin in his neat traditional costume, playing the cello among their fellow musicians was different from imagining him on stage with Fíli and Kíli in the head.

Fíli and Kíli, their cousin’s beloved headaches.

So here they are, crushed in among a somewhat odiferous crush of dwarves and occasional humans, surrounded by smoke (smoking would never be allowed at the orchestra, not knowing what it does to the lungs, but people here seem to do all they want) and whiskey, waiting through two traditional metal bands for the Heirs of Durin to do their thing.

They aren’t prepared for it.

They thought they were but-

Fíli is practically nude and Kíli is just everywhere including in Fíli’s pockets, and that little prodigy even has short sleeves on under his sweater vest and thank goodness Thorin is wearing his usual orchestra clothes but Dwalin

Dwalin is in all black.

And all leather.

And there are….silver things.

And his sleeves are-

“He has more muscle than I expected,” says the clarinetist.

And tattoos, all down the roped muscles of his arms, visible, just out there for the world to see.

“What is the world coming to?” mutters the tuba player.

“I don’t know,” answers the flutist with a lick of the lips. “But I think I like it.”

The flutist isn’t bothered in the least by her companions’ disappointment. 

She gets the entire band to autograph her poster-making sure to get the one where Dwalin is in that lovely, short sleeved black tee.

 

9.  
They sit on the sofa and watch the first televised Heirs concert in history.

It’s a wonderful production. Nori’s lights are perfect, the crowd is excited, and the boys and Tauriel are doing a wonderful job. They’ve certainly never heard their sons’ names yelled so often.

And yet-

“I want to turn away,” Dis says as her younger son slides up behind her eldest on the screen. Those eyes would only be appropriate in…in…

In porn.

Maybe softcore porn?

She tells herself that so she’ll feel a bit better.

What has she come to?

“I know,” Vali agreed, slipping his arm around her waist. “But it’s kind of impossible to look away.”

On the screen, Fíli tilts his head.

Kíli licks his neck.

Their parents sigh.

“I’m beginning to see why they said we wouldn’t like their concerts,” Vali comments.

“Yes,” Dis answers dryly. “As have I.”

It’s only a couple of seconds before Kíli darts back to his drums and the camera recenters on Tauriel, but it _seems_ longer.

“So,” Dis says.

“So,” Vali replies.

They exchange a look. 

“To be clear, I adore them both,” Vali says.

“Of course!”

“And I support their relationship these days. I mean, I feel that I’m over my initial concern.”

“I agree.”

“But…”

Dis pats his knee. “But there are some things a parent should never see.” Her voice is firm.

“Damn straight,” Vali agrees, and switches the channel over to their favorite chef’s competition.

They were, without a doubt, the Heirs of Durin’s biggest fans. They purchased the very first CD ever, after all, and had lent their talents to their first studio album and had already agreed to perform in their homecoming Erebor concert before the whole symphony.

But still.

….Better to change the channel and clean the mind out with a bit of mental soap.

Just for their sanity.


	9. Not Quite Breakfast in Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There were those who would assume that Fíli was the get-up-and-go half of his relationship with Kíli. He was, after all, the face of the Heirs of Durin, the mastermind, the seemingly tireless force. 
> 
> Nothing could be further from the truth.
> 
> Kili is the morning person; Fili is the one who sleeps in. But that doesn't mean that Fili isn't ready and willing to do his duty when he finds Kili cooking breakfast in only an apron.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this beautiful art by Linane: http://linane-art.tumblr.com/post/159338708536/fullsize-picture-my-other-fanart

There were those who would assume that Fíli was the get-up-and-go half of his relationship with Kíli. He was, after all, the face of the Heirs of Durin, the mastermind, the seemingly tireless force. 

Nothing could be further from the truth.

\----

Fíli stretched slowly, resolutely refusing to open his eyes even as his brain insisted on waking up. Everyone knew you weren’t _really_ awake until you’d opened your eyes. 

Instead, he rolled over and buried his nose in Kíli’s pillow – cool now, long abandoned by his morning-person of a brother – and breathed in the not unpleasant scent of shampoo and sleep and detergent that reminded him of Kíli’s bright smiles and warm laughter. 

All of which were better suited to the afternoon hours. 

He lay there, vehemently denying his own wakefulness, until a familiar smell wafted in from the kitchen – coffee.

Kíli had made the coffee.

Fíli practically purred and, wrapping his arms around his brother’s pillow, considered his options. If he stayed in bed, coffee and Kíli would make their way to him, teasing and cajoling him to join the world. If he got up, he could see Kíli in his bed headed natural environment, cooking whatever ridiculously delicious breakfast he was planning today. 

Ah, decisions, decisions. Go to his Kíli? Wait for his Kíli to come to him?

Without making a proper decision, Fíli’s body wiggled to the edge of the bed and he flopped unceremoniously to his feet – not exactly the sex god the Heirs of Durin fans had come to expect. But that was fine. He could be sexy and competent after coffee.

\-----

Kíli loved mornings.

He didn’t give off morning-person vibes, somehow, so people always seemed shocked to learn that he rarely missed a sunrise, or that his brother would hide among the covers until called out by the siren call of coffee two or three hours later. But he did – the quiet of it, the coolness, the stillness of the house, how cute Fíli was when he rolled into Kíli’s warm spot and stole his pillow and murmured whatever secret language he and the pillow spoke as Kíli padded for the bathroom. 

Many mornings, his brother wouldn’t budge until Kíli marched into the room, armed with coffee. This morning, however, some secret sense of Fíli’s had drawn him from bed of his own accord: Kíli could hear his footsteps coming down the hall as Kíli carefully stirred the ingredients for their breakfast quiche.

He didn’t look up when Fíli reached the doorway, but he did grin to himself at the sound of a low, throaty:

“Well, good morning to every inch of you, Kíli.”

Kíli may, possibly, have decided that getting dressed was a waste of valuable time this morning.

Though of course, he used an apron from his stash to protect the more vulnerable bits of his anatomy.

“You’re up early,” Kíli answered, carefully pouring the mixture into his favorite skillet before finally looking up. 

Fíli’s eyes, shame on him, were not focused properly on Kíli’s face. They were, instead, looking down, where the trailing ties of his apron fluttered against the bare skin of his ass and thighs. 

Kíli most certainly didn’t lift up on his toes a tiny bit to show off the shift of muscle. Nor did he grin at Fíli’s soft little sound of approval. 

Fíli’s eyes were soft in the morning, and his smile playful. He was, though Kíli wouldn’t say it to his face, completely adorable, his hair half-escaped from the thick braid Kíli had plaited the night before, his shirt-

“You stole my shirt,” Kíli accused, checking the heat of the oven. 

It was too long on Fíli, and that was just extra cute, and Kíli’s heart did a ridiculous little pitter pat at the sight.

“Secret borrowing,” Fíli replied easily, those eyes flickering over Kíli’s hips, over the cloth blocking his view. He pushed off from the doorway and moved forward on bare feet. “That’s what you get for leaving it lying around where I could borrow it.”

Kíli grinned. 

His not so nefarious plan had worked.

He let his gaze slide away from Fíli and back to breakfast. He took a step back, opened the oven, and slid in the skillet. 

The moment the oven door clicked into place, broad hands slid under the cloth of the apron and warmth spread along Kíli’s bare back as Fíli slid close and kissed one shoulder. 

Kíli’s little laugh of surprise melted into something else entirely when Fíli’s hands pulled him back by the hips, and he slid, half-hard already, between the curves of Kíli’s ass. “Morning,” Fíli purred, lips brushing Kíli’s ear.

Kíli shivered and tilted his head a little. “Feels like…every bit of you is up early this morning.”

This earned a flash of teeth against his neck and a murmured, “And whose fault is that?” 

“I’ve been innocently making breakfast,” Kíli answered, resting a hand over his heart in mock earnestness. 

“There is _nothing_ ,” Fíli murmured, lips hot against Kíli’s neck, “innocent,” his hands slid forward and around, nails digging in the tiniest bit at Kíli’s hipbones, thumbs beginning to tangle in dark curls, “about you in that get-up, baby.”

Kíli laughed, low in his throat just like he knew drove Fíli wild. Maybe it should have gotten boring, knowing every button to push, but it never did. He always wanted more, needed more, Fíli’s voice and Fíli’s hands and Fíli’s dick.

Speaking of which…

Strong fingers wrapped around Kíli’s cock and he moaned, shifting his hips forward before pushing his oh-so-conveniently bare ass against his brother’s hardening length. 

Fíli’s getting it up so fast was certainly good for his ego.

“You’re practically begging for it,” Fíli whispered, his lips moving against Kíli’s ear. And maybe he was, but Kíli didn’t regret a thing. He rolled his hips and spread his feet just a little – an open invitation, immediately understood. “And here I thought you had _rules_ about proper behavior in your precious kitchen.”

“Yes.” Kíli agreed, his voice a low rumble as Fíli’s fingers teased along the length of his cock. “And the rule is, I make the rules.”

“Brat.”

“Yours,” Kíli shot back, and the low moan that earned made him grin wolfishly. 

A dry thumb slid between his cheeks and pressed gently just where Kíli had imagined him that morning, when he decided that clothes would just get in the way of this particular fantasy. “You want me in you?” Fíli asked, and it was sweet because he _asked_ but _delicious_ because his _voice_.

“Yessss,” Kíli breathed, the word almost a hiss. His hand slid across the counter before wrapping around a cool bottle and lifting it up. 

Fíli laughed, his body warm and vibrating along Kíli’s back. “Olive oil, baby? Really?” He let go of Kíli’s dick – kissing his ear when Kíli made a noise of disapproval, and took the bottle in hand. It was small but heavy, the glass cool and thick. Kíli glanced over his shoulder in time to catch the blue eyes widening with surprise. “Damn, Kíli, how much did this _cost_? Is this pure olive oil?”

Kíli smiled, slow and pleased. “As if I’d let you use anything other than the best on my glorious ass.”

Fíli gave the glorious ass in question a pinch, but didn’t argue the description. Instead, he pressed forward with his hips, pinning Kíli to the countertop as he used both hands to release the seal and let a single drop fall to his fingertip. The scent of olives was rich and dark.

Fíli pressed the slick fingertip to Kíli’s lips and Kíli let it slip inside, sucking it in and nipping at the knuckle before letting it slide free. Another few drops – Fíli had clearly done his own research about how delightfully slippery olive oil could be – and slippery fingers caressed one sharp hip before trailing, once again, to where Kíli most wanted his Fíli to be.

“How many?” Fíli whispered, his other hand releasing Kíli’s erection to grip Kíli’s hip, firm and pressing him just a little against the counter. Kíli responded automatically by pushing up just a bit on his toes. “One?” A delicious slide and one finger was inside Kíli, warm and clever and slick, not quite crooking just-so, even though Fíli knew exactly what to do to drive Kíli wild. “Two?” A second fingertip, massaging without sliding in, Fíli’s thumb barely pressing just behind Kíli’s balls. “Three?”

Kíli bit his lip and tried to grip the edge of the counter. “Three,” he purred, because he loved Fíli’s hands and Fíli’s fingertips and Fíli’s- 

His voice came out in a low thrum of approval as Fíli added a second finger, and this time he _did_ move it _just so_ , a delicate brush to Kíli’s prostate that made him shiver in approval. 

Those hands worked _magic_.

Fíli took his time, his breath a steady rhythm against Kíli’s shoulder, golden hair gliding unseen along Kíli’s arm as his brother slowly, methodically stretched him. Gentle, fluttering touches interspaced with harsher little thrusts, fingertips sending spikes of pleasure up his spine before slipping away for that slow, melting slide as Fíli pressed in a third finger. 

It ached, just a bit, and Kíli’s teeth dug into his bottom lip as he fought the urge to shove himself back on that glorious hand and ache just that little more.

Then Fíli stopped moving, and there was the flash of his smirk against Kíli’s shoulder, and Kíli growled and did shove back, pulled away, rocked again-

“That’s right, baby,” Fíli murmured, voice warm, “you fuck yourself on my fingers until you’re ready for my cock.”

Kíli moaned, shivered, pushed back and moaned, “ _Fuck_ ,” because Fíli rarely cursed but when he did it danced along his spine and made him want it hard and slick and fast. 

Fíli laughed, and Kíli wanted to punch him, kiss him, and throw him to the ground for a proper ride, all at the same time.

“Why do you have to be such a _tease_?!” Kíli demanded, hips still moving, searching for those wonderful moments when Fíli would curl his fingers and drive Kíli wild.

Fíli’s response was immediate. “Because you love it.”

He did, fuck it all. “ _Ass_.”

“Mm, yes. Quite a pretty one, in fact,” Fíli grinned. He shifted behind Kíli, all hot skin and silky hair, and gently kicked the inside of Kíli’s ankle. “Spread your feet, Kíli,” he said and, when Kíli did (shaking and clasping at the edge of the counter more securely now as his balance was thrown off), added in a voice like woodsmoke, “so I can give this pretty ass exactly what it wants.”

Then the fingers were gone, though Fíli didn’t give him so much as a moment to mourn the loss. Instead, there was blunt pressure and then-

 _Mahal_.

Full and thick and sudden and _perfect_ , soft curls against his skin and Fíli deep inside him.

Kíli’s voice came out as a moan of pure pleasure. “Fuck,” he said again, a statement and a question and a request all in one. 

Strong hands caught his waist, held him tight – a little too-tight, and just right to keep him on his feet at such an odd angle, and-

“Yeah, baby. _Fuck_.”

Fíli pinned him against the counter and held him up and _fucked_ him.

Every thrust was hot and slick and _hard_ , pushing Kíli’s abdomen against the counter, sending his hands sliding for purchase but leaving him at the mercy of the push and pull of Fíli’s cock in his body. Nails bit in at his hips and he cried out, tried to dig his elbows into merciless granite and slid, bent over and open for his brother’s perfect, deliciously selfish thrusts.

He was at Fíli’s mercy in a way he hadn’t imagined, and Kili loved it.

“Fíli,” he breathed, and he wasn’t sure if he was begging for Fíli to stop or to keep going forever, because there was no hand on his own aching cock and the thrusts weren’t striking quite right, but it seemed as if it could go on _forever_ just like this.

Sweat pooled between his shoulders, and he felt the weight of that messy morning braid against his back and Fíli pushed in and held and licked the salty drops away. “Gorgeous,” Fíli whispered. 

Then he wrapped his arms around Kíli’s chest and _lifted_ , Kíli’s feet barely brushing the floor as his brother twisted his hips up and just-

 _Pounded_ against his prostate.

Kíli might have yelled – something rang in his ears as pleasure hit him hard – and his hands scrambled madly for the open shelves above the counter, gripping, feeling the hard cords of muscle across his chest as Fíli held him and took him and struck his prostate again and again in harsh, fast thrusts.

“Fíli-Fíli-“ every jerk of his body and Fíli’s name fell from his lips in demands and prayers and moans. 

Teeth bit at his shoulder blade, just once, and then Fíli let his feet touch the ground and his cock slid free and Kíli was certain he was going to die right there if Fíli dared to-

“On the floor,” Fíli growled, and oh, he was hot and close when his voice sounded like that. Kíli scrambled to the floor, all thoughts of grace forgotten as he sprawled on his back and lifted his hips, legs spread and shivering at the sudden cool of tile against flushed skin. 

“Fíli!” He demanded and Fíli was there, between his legs, lifting one over his shoulder and kissing the inside of his knee like a precious sacrifice before pushing back inside him.

This time, a clever hand wrapped around Kíli and stroked, every pulse perfection from experience and love, and Kíli’s voice fell into nothing but moans and Fíli’s name and shocks of pleasure. The world was a blur except for those blue eyes watching him and the curve of Fíli’s lips. 

Fíli’s breath hitched, and Kíli tightened his knee over that strong shoulder. “Don’t,” he demanded. “Don’t pull out.”

Fíli didn’t. Instead, he curved forward, messy braid and warm eyes and a flash of tongue as he licked his lips and hard little thrusts that were finally too much with the steady stroking of Kíli’s cock in delicious rhythm. 

“Come while I’m in you,” Fíli said. “Come on, baby. You come all around me.”

Kíli came.

He arched his back and grabbed for Fíli’s arms, curled into himself and pulsed in hot waves over Fíli’s warm, slick, wonderful hand. 

It didn’t happen often but oh, this once-

He felt Fíli’s cock pushing, pushing, and warmth and heat and-

He fell back against the floor, in a tangle of twisted apron and panting his approval up at the ceiling. Fíli took a moment more, little stuttering twists of his hips and heavy breaths until he pulled free – as gently as the thrusts had been hard – and more or less collapsed to his back against the tiles at Kíli’s side.

After his breathing was – somewhat – back to normal, Kíli slid a hand across the floor and found Fíli’s, still slick with oil and come. He linked fingers with Fíli, giving him a smug squeeze.

“We came at the same time,” Kíli announced, his voice a little rough. Just in case Fíli hadn’t noticed.

Fíli had. “Yeah.”

A breath.

“Damn we’re good,” Kíli offered.

Fíli laughed, that low, tired, post-sex laugh that made Kíli fall deeper and deeper in love every time, and he lifted their joined hands to press a kiss to the messy, entwined fingers. “It was the apron,” he said. “As if you being you wasn’t enough, those ribbons holding that apron on were all over the place.”

Kíli blinked. Then laughed, free and loud and happy at the thought of his strong, sexy, protective brother being endlessly teased by a ribbon while fucking him senseless. 

Fíli allowed the laughter and held out an arm in anticipation as Kíli curled against him, head fitting comfortably on Fíli’s shoulder. 

“How long until the casserole needs to come out?”

“Mmm.” Kíli glanced lazily at the kitchen clock. “It can wait.”

He _might_ have set it cooking at a lower temperature than usual.

Just to buy time for…

Appetizers.

But he didn’t tell Fíli that.

He just yawned and cuddled and thought about what, exactly, he could accomplish with a little imagination and a few silk ribbons.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first section, from Fili's pov, was originally meant to be scrapped. Linane, however, said it must stay! And I will always obey my friend, artist, and beta reader!!

**Author's Note:**

> [Blanket Permission Statement](http://dragonsquill.tumblr.com/permission)


End file.
